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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24749821">tongue tied</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/seascrypt/pseuds/seascrypt'>seascrypt</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Body Image, Established Relationship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, POV Alternating, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Subspace</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:08:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,132</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24749821</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/seascrypt/pseuds/seascrypt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>It’s an evening of change, this one. Siegfried had come to him in the morning and asked, with a surprising amount of delicacy, if they could try something different. “If you’d be willing to follow my lead, this time,” Siegfried had said.</p>
</blockquote>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aglovale/Siegfried (Granblue Fantasy)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>tongue tied</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> it almost seems as if you had yielded </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> to those desires </em> <em> —how they glowed, </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> remember, in the eyes gazing at you; </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> how they trembled in the voice, for you </em></p><p>—C. P. Cavafy</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Aglovale’s patience is a fraying thread. </p><p>By contrast, Siegfried’s seems to be an unending spool. It takes all of Aglovale’s considerable willpower not to bat away Siegfried’s wandering touch and take charge as he usually does. But he made a promise, and Aglovale keeps his promises, so he inhales, exhales, and allows Siegfried to do as he pleases. </p><p>It’s an evening of change, this one. Siegfried had come to him in the morning and asked, with a surprising amount of delicacy, if they could try something different. “If you’d be willing to follow my lead, this time,” Siegfried had said, and qualified the statement with assurances that if it wasn’t something Aglovale enjoyed after they started, they would make a return to familiarity, no harm done, no grudges held. </p><p>Siegfried offers him such trust, Aglovale had reasoned, so why not return it? Who else can he trust, if not the very man he lets sleep beside him, who soothes him in the aftermath of night terrors and makes him smile in the early hours of morning? </p><p>So of course he’d said yes, he would hand Siegfried the reins, and had left him with a promise to see him before dinner. As soon as the sun had started to sink in the sky, Aglovale had dismissed his court and gone in search of Siegfried, who had been lingering outside of his office. </p><p>“I was wondering where you were,” Siegfried had teased, and grinned at Aglovale’s inelegant snort. </p><p>Aglovale had led the way to his quarters, up until the final stretch of empty hallway where Siegfried had turned to him, eyes twinkling, and closed his hand around Aglovale’s own. Aglovale had felt like a boy with his first crush, nervous yet eager, holding Siegfried’s hand and letting himself be pulled into his own room, shutting the door while on the edge of a breathless laugh. Siegfried had pressed him against the door, the handle digging uncomfortably into the small of his back, and kissed the laughter out of him. He had laid claim to Aglovale’s lips, pushed aside the fabric of Aglovale’s collar and marked his territory upon Aglovale’s neck, and Aglovale had followed him willingly when he pulled him forward and led him to the bed. </p><p>Siegfried had pried off Aglovale’s regalia, taking apart his defenses one piece of fabric at a time. He had coaxed Aglovale into lying on the bed, parting Aglovale’s thighs with a nudge of his knee and settling between them. This was already unfamiliar—Aglovale being the one undressed, watching as Siegfried stripped off his tunic and only that—and then Siegfried had leaned in, circled his fingers around Aglovale’s wrists, and pulled them up until he was stretched taut. </p><p>“Keep them here for me,” he had murmured. </p><p>And Aglovale had—shockingly—obeyed, wide-eyed and without words. </p><p>Which brings him to now: Siegfried, kneeling between Aglovale’s legs, carefully running his hands over the plane of Aglovale’s chest. It’s a heady feeling, having Siegfried’s full attention. An unnerving one, too. Aglovale’s never the one on display like this—he’s the one who pushes Siegfried onto the bed and lays him bare, explores him with his hands and tongue. </p><p>Aglovale is the cartographer of Siegfried’s skin. He knows better than anyone alive the locations of Siegfried’s battlemarks. There is no scar that is unknown to him—he has charted their locations, chronicled their stories, and keeps the knowledge safe in the deepest, most secretive parts of himself. </p><p>Siegfried’s scars don’t diminish his appearance. Far from it. Aglovale takes a special kind of pleasure in admiring them, one not unlike the pleasure of scraping his teeth along their outlines and biting down. Siegfried wears his scars as easily as he wears his armor; has shrugged even at the most egregious of them and said, “It’s only skin.” </p><p>Harder for Siegfried to accept, Aglovale has come to learn, is his back, which is covered in scales. Siegfried had told him the first time he’d shed his clothes that they weren’t a recent addition; they’d been an immediate side effect of consuming Fafnir’s blood. They had changed color over the years; they had started out brown, then had fallen off and grown back in red, and now they are on a cycle of gold. Aglovale can’t say he enjoys the sight of the scales any more than Siegfried does—privately, he thinks he might grow fonder of them if they come back in a pearlescent white, this upcoming cycle—but he does rather like that he’s able to draw his nails down Siegfried’s back, grasp him as tightly as he wants to, without doing him any harm. </p><p>But now it’s Siegfried’s turn to map out a body, to touch—a fact he’s reminded of as Siegfried sucks a bruise into the hollow of his throat. </p><p>“Stay with me,” Siegfried says. </p><p>“I <em> am</em>,” Aglovale replies. </p><p>Siegfried marks a path down Aglovale’s chest with his mouth, stops at a nipple and <em> bites. </em> A reprimand, a <em> don’t lie to me</em>. The pain of it goes straight to Aglovale’s cock. Siegfried smirks into Aglovale’s skin. </p><p>From there the world narrows down to this: the scrape of Siegfried’s teeth, the place where his hair drags against Aglovale’s chest, the unhurried sweeps of his fingers mapping all of Aglovale’s sharp edges. The space between their bodies—marginal, rapidly closing—is warm, growing warmer. </p><p>“Look at you,” Siegfried says, pleased. </p><p>There’s nothing to look at it, Aglovale thinks. Siegfried’s mouthing against Aglovale’s other nipple, his form glowing in the burnt light of sunset. His left hand, settled on Aglovale’s hip, is sliding up to meet his mouth. Aglovale wants to squirm. He wants to press back, wants to rise up and shove Siegfried onto the bed and reverse their roles. But Siegfried’s yet to rescind his order, and Aglovale—his heart’s hammering in his chest but he’s not ready to say stop. </p><p>Siegfried’s fingers stroke the underside of Aglovale’s chin, then drag along the seam of his lips. He bites the bud he’d been attending before drawing back. Aglovale’s breath catches. He can feel his cock, hard against his thigh, jerk. The knowledge that Siegfried’s leaving behind matching marks—Aglovale goes dizzy with it. </p><p>“Red suits you,” Siegfried says. </p><p>He presses his fingers down. Aglovale’s lips part around them. He doesn’t have to be told to know that Siegfried wants him to suck on them. </p><p>“Look at you,” Siegfried repeats. “So good for me.”</p><p>Aglovale moans around his fingers, the sound slipping out before he can catch it. Siegfried’s eyes flash. </p><p>“So patient,” he continues, leaning down again, dragging his fingers and his gaze lower and lower and lower. “So lovely.”</p><p>That makes Aglovale shiver. He’s not and he knows it. Parts of him, perhaps. He doesn’t mind seeing his face in the mirror, or his legs, or his arms. But his torso—</p><p>Aglovale doesn’t have half of the scars that Siegfried does, but he has some. Nicks on his back from playing outside as a child. A line on his hand from where a young Percival had insisted that he <em>could too</em> <em>throw a dagger, Lamorak</em>, only to have it miss his target entirely and run Aglovale’s hand through. There’s a burn mark on his calf from one of Lamorak’s spells gone wrong, and a stain on his lower thigh from another spell that, no matter how many times Lamorak had tried to fix it, looks like a permanent bruise. He minds none of these. </p><p>The largest of them, though, he can’t bear to look at. It had started as a bone-white patch on his hip, bloomed the moment his mother’s coffin had been lowered into the earth; frostbite, the healers had called it, and when three days later it had grown in size, a never-melting ice. A side effect of his ice magic, the healers had said. Harmless, but if he wasn’t careful with his magic use, it would continue to grow. Now, decades later, the patch has taken over half of Aglovale’s torso, branching out into tiny tendrils, each a different pattern than the last. It’s cold to the touch and it reaches for his heart, but it’s been two years since it last spread. </p><p>It’s ugly. Aglovale will be the first to admit it. A permanent, disgusting stain left by uncontrollable, childish despondence.  </p><p>And Siegfried’s tongue is on it. </p><p>Aglovale jolts at the feeling. It’s mind-altering, it’s thought-stealing, it sets every one of his nerves alight and makes him lurch forward, hands lifting in search of Siegfried’s hair. Siegfried bites down, hard, a sharp warning, and Aglovale <em> whines</em>. Can’t decide if he wants Siegfried’s teeth to sink in deeper or if he wants to shake him off, and the indecision results in him twisting to the side. Siegfried pulls his fingers from Aglovale’s mouth and locks him in place with his arms. Aglovale drops his hands back onto the mattress, fisting them into the fabric. </p><p>Appeased, Siegfried laves his tongue over the wound. Aglovale’s panting now; he can feel the sticky wetness from where his cock is leaking, can feel his heart drumming in his throat. His eyes are stinging, watery. And Siegfried keeps dragging his tongue along the ridges of the same spot, over and over again. His heat can’t melt the ice-mark, can’t burn it off, but the sting of it makes Aglovale shudder. It’s all Aglovale can do not to press back, not to <em> move </em>, but Siegfried’s order still stands and he doesn’t want to be bitten a second time.</p><p>(Or maybe he does, whispers a new part of him. Maybe he wants to be able to feel the indents of Siegfried’s teeth in his skin, wants to be reminded of this high after he comes down from it.) </p><p>Siegfried makes the choice for him. He slips lower, his hair leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, and settles between Aglovale’s thighs. Pushes them apart with his hands, and without giving Aglovale the chance to catch his breath or brace himself, tears his claim into the soft skin there. </p><p>A choked “please,” is falling from Aglovale’s mouth before he even recognizes the shape of the word. Once it’s out there, once he catches Siegfried’s eyes, he can’t seem to stop the rest of them—a chorus of pleading, desperate and wanting.</p><p>It’s too much. Aglovale’s skin feels like it's melting in every place Siegfried has touched. He wants to press forward into Siegfried’s hands and be suffocated by his heat. It’s confusing and overwhelming and divine, and he doesn’t know how to express any of it. He tries, fails to find the words, and changes approach only to have that backfire, too; where he means to let out a shaky breath, he lets out a whimper instead. </p><p>It should be humiliating. It’s not. Siegfried’s gaze catches him when he falls and he lets himself be held in the amber of his eyes, sink in and crystallize. Siegfried looks at him, <em> truly </em>looks at him, and understands. He pulls away. </p><p>“Alright, lovely one,” he says, tilting away and sliding off the bed. “I understand.”</p><p>Aglovale starts to follow but stops short. Siegfried’s earlier orders still float between them—the words are like manacles on his wrists—so he settles back and waits. Aglovale isn’t the one who moves, Siegfried is the one who moves him. And judging by the way Siegfried’s eyes turn so dark they’re red, the way Siegfried smiles, pleased and predatory, Aglovale thinks he’s done something right. </p><p>“So good for me. Only for me,” Siegfried says, and the praise makes Aglovale ache. “Come here. Kneel. Keep your hands behind your back.”</p><p>Aglovale complies. He sits up, sighs at the way his muscles burn and his bite marks throb. For a heartbeat he wishes that he could stay just like this and sink into the pain, but Siegfried’s given him a set of commands and Aglovale wants desperately to follow them. To earn Siegfried’s approval. So he pushes himself off the bed and falls to his knees, locks his arms behind his back, and looks up at Siegfried standing above him. Watches as he unlaces his trousers, frees his cock and strokes it. </p><p>Once, twice, three times, and Aglovale’s ready to shatter into a thousand crystal pieces at the sight of it. </p><p>Siegfried grants him mercy. He slips a hand into Aglovale’s hair, grips it tight, and jerks him forward. This isn’t the first time Aglovale has done this, not even the first time he’s felt a thrill from it, but it is the first time Siegfried’s guided him to his cock and asked, without words, to be serviced. It’s the first time Aglovale’s wanted it so badly that he can think of nothing else. </p><p>It’s the first time he sheds his king’s cloak and crown and all of his armor and gets to be human, suspended in time for a moment. All he is now is an ordinary man, with ordinary desires. The only thing left is to drown in them. </p><p>So he revels at the weight of Siegfried’s cock on his tongue, at the pleasant burn along his scalp. And then he closes his eyes, takes what he’s given, and <em> sucks</em>. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>* </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Siegfried shudders and comes into Aglovale’s mouth. </p><p>He loosens the grip he has on Aglovale’s hair, pulls out slowly. Aglovale stays where he is, blinks up at him with eyes the color of king’s gold, and waits for Siegfried’s next command. Aglovale’s lips are glistening, dripping with saliva and spend. It’s all Siegfried can do not to fist his hands in Aglovale’s hair again and drag him up by the roots, press himself so close that he can snarl against Aglovale’s lips before claiming them as his. </p><p>Instead, he runs his thumb through the mess and drags it down until it paints Aglovale’s chin. Siegfried’s sated and content and—woefully—in need of a pause, but the sight of Aglovale… He’s burning alive, being the sole witness to the King of Wales on his knees, soft and pliant despite how desperately his cock is straining against his thigh. His length is red and angry and entirely ignored in favor of watching Siegfried with a hazy gaze. </p><p>Heat floods in Siegfried’s belly. He wants to bury himself in it, bury himself in <em> Aglovale</em>, even if he knows that isn’t feasible. </p><p>“You are so beautiful,” Siegfried murmurs, more to himself than to anyone else, and smiles at the flush that blooms across Aglovale’s skin. </p><p>He knows how lucky he is, that Aglovale isn’t arguing with him. That Aglovale is taking in everything he says and luxuriating in it, that he’s letting Siegfried see him like this. It’s unusual for Aglovale to be the one undressed; laying himself bare is a challenge and Siegfried knows why. He’s felt the cold seep out from under the mostly-sheer robes that they compromise with. </p><p>(He can’t deny the appeal of Aglovale in those robes. He has <em> very </em> fond memories of Aglovale in shimmering fabric, divine in the moonlight, astride him. His favorite time, he’d coaxed Aglovale into wearing the silver diadem he dons only for the most formal of occasions; the man had looked like a treasure, ethereal and glowing, and Siegfried’s blood had sung <em> mine, mine, mine </em> as he came apart.) </p><p>“You’re all mine, aren’t you?” he says, closing his fingers around Aglovale’s jaw. </p><p>“Yours,” Aglovale agrees, breathless, voice raspy. </p><p>The <em> sound </em> of him. Siegfried’s tempted to kneel down alongside Aglovale and leave another bite, this time higher, where even Aglovale’s collar won’t be able to hide it. But he thinks better of it—the idea of marking is appealing, the thought of the tongue-lashing he’d receive in the morning for it, less so—and coaxes Aglovale to his feet instead. </p><p>He maneuvers them both onto the bed, arranges them so that Aglovale is flush against his back, tucked against his smooth scales. Parts his thighs just a little and urges Aglovale’s cock into the space between them. The sound he makes, small and overwhelmed, makes Siegfried’s own length twitch with interest. He ignores it in favor of locking his hand in Aglovale’s hair again, angling his head so Aglovale’s mouth is touching his ear.</p><p>“Take it, love,” Siegfried says. “Take your pleasure.”</p><p>Aglovale doesn’t hesitate. He rocks into Siegfried’s thighs and whimpers when Siegfried flexes the muscles to tighten them. </p><p>Maybe he’s a little cruel for this, Siegfried thinks. Trapping Aglovale’s face next to his with an unyielding grip. Driving him to a point where he’s desperate for a high, ready and willing and able to chase his release between Siegfried’s thighs, unable to hold back the sweetest sounds. Siegfried would eat them, if he could. Tiny delicacies, made only for him, <em> because </em>of him. </p><p>Aglovale might be the one unraveling at the seams, but Siegfried’s already come undone by this, the sight and sound of his heart hiding nothing from him. </p><p>“That’s it,” he says, low and pleased. “Just like that. Come for me, Aglovale. Let me hear you.”</p><p>He feels it before he hears it. Aglovale’s movements stutter; he yanks himself from Siegfried’s grip and muffles his moan into Siegfried’s shoulder. His whole body trembles when he comes, painting Siegfried’s skin and his bedsheets. </p><p>Siegfried releases his hold on Aglovale, twists around, and kisses him. Aglovale sinks into it, chasing him even when Siegfried pulls away. Siegfried strokes his hair, kisses him until Aglovale’s had his fill, and murmurs sweet nothings against his lips all the while. </p><p>When Aglovale’s finally sated, the fog in his eyes starting to clear, Siegfried pulls away to go find something to clean them with. Aglovale is many things—appreciative of mess is not one of them. </p><p>“I’ll be right back,” Siegfried says. </p><p>He rises halfway, only to be stopped by a petulant hand, grabbing onto his calf and holding it with an iron grip. </p><p>“If you leave this bed,” Aglovale grumbles, “you won’t be allowed to return.”</p><p>Siegfried smiles. Drops back down and adjusts himself, pulling Aglovale close and draping a leg over his thighs. Aglovale says nothing about the stickiness, simply presses up against him and tucks his head into Siegfried’s chest. He can feel Aglovale’s exhales, warm puffs of air, and can feel the cold of his ice-mark against his hip. That Aglovale is willing to stay bare even now—well.</p><p>“I can hear you thinking,” he says into Siegfried’s skin. “Insufferable man.”</p><p>Siegfried can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him, bright and clear. “All yours,” he replies, tilts Aglovale’s chin up, and dips down for a kiss.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>an excerpt from my texts, at 10:30pm on a monday—</p><p>&gt; i was gonna write straight porn but this has somehow instead become some kind of emotional ode to one of the characters' self-esteem issues, idfk<br/>&gt; wolf half of the brain: write smut<br/>&gt; other half of the brain, even louder: yeah but what if you put in XYZ HEADCANONS COMPLETELY UNRELATED TO THE TOPIC AT HAND</p><p>—so, yes. ended up writing 85% emotions, 15% smut. i cursed myself. as ever, thank you to the best beta reader in the world for fielding my nine million questions about grammar and all my synonym-related demands. you're the mvp of every match.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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